#my bisexuality is THRIVING

[wowifinallywatched]

Wow I finally watched Meg 2: The Trench

AND HOLY FUCK DID I LOVE IT

Excuse the language but Shark movies are my mother fucking SHIT! The cheesiest, most gooeyest of shark movies? GIMME THEM ALL! They are my absolute favourite and They make you laugh, they make you question reality and they make you think you can take on a whole ass Shar-kraken on your own. (I cannot BUT HEY I WON'T KNOW UNTIL I TRY-)

Listen, This movie has everything you could ever need or want:

-Dinosaurs (Babeh and Big Bois) -SHORKS XTREME -THE KRAKEEEEEEEEEENNNNN -Adopted Dad -Kick ass 14 year old who proves her worth while still being the baby of the group -Dilfs 2.0 -Co-parenting dilfs -Many parental figures to protect the child -Did I mention dilfs? -SOMEONE ACTUALLY LEARNING FROM PREVIOUS SHARK ENCOUNTERS AND COMING PREPARED THIS TIME -Multitudes of Aunts and Uncles who would give their lives for the precious 14 year old baby of the group -14 year old precious baby is not allowed to protect anyone with her life -She does it anyway hahahah we love her -FUCKIN SHARKTOPUS REMINICENSE??? -Did I mention hot people fighting Sharks and Krakens and dinosaurs and bad people? -COMEDY. BUT LIKE...CHEESY COMEDY WHERE THE PEOPLE SAYING THE JOKES KNOW HOW CHEESY IT IS, BUT THEY SAY IT ANYWAY a personal favourite of mine -FUCKING?? THIS MOVIE LOOKED INCREDIBLE?? IS THIS JUST ME WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THIS?? WE GOT SO MUCH SUSPENSE?? INTENSE?? ACTION?? SEND HELP?? -Karma getting satisfyingly served -The dog lives I WAS EXTREMELY STRESSED -"You miss your Ma?" SOBBING -Man and Shark connections that have no relations to dolphins at all -Wu Jing is so hot and the fun protective uncle send help this is my weakness

In other words this is a modern day cheesy shark movie that owns it and is now one of my favourite movies of all time. Period.

If you're having a bad day, if you need a laugh and to roll your eyes, please watch this movie. You won't regret it.

[marvey-sideblog]

Law firm Specter Ross represent gay club in Seattle

[moonlightsapphic]

hi! I just wanted to thank you so much for making that post recommending the historical essays on butchfemme identities - they def gave me a new perspective 💕

Ahhh I’m so glad! The LGBTQ+ community has such a rich culture and history and it’s a shame we don’t get to learn about our own culture in school at all. (We get to learn about our nationality, race, and religion—but sadly not about our queer identity which is just as important!) I’m thankful that books have been written to capture this history, and that there are young queer folks creating such wonderful accessible analyses for us to learn more. I also definitely felt a deeper understanding of myself after going through those essays and had to share!

[iwoll]

Sick of It: Medicine, Margins, & the Struggle to Be Understood

Another zine?

Well, yes! Another zine! For me, they’ve been a constant source of fascination since my middle school emo days, when I first read The Perks of Being a Wallflower. It felt like finding a secret language — a way to express myself outside the mainstream. Back then (and still now), I was obsessed with The Rocky Horror Picture Show and alternative music, and discovering that zines could blend both worlds was mind-blowing. Zines make complex, emotional, and nuanced topics easier to digest — especially in spaces like medicine, where the language can feel cold and clinical, and the stakes are deeply personal.

So why this topic, and why now? Well, the western world doesn’t usually think of medicine as a space for ambiguity, emotion, or cultural critique—but I believe we should. As someone going into the medical field, I’ve been grappling with how often care gets reduced to checklists, diagnoses, and prescriptions — especially when it comes to mental health. This topic is personal, too: as a queer person, I’ve seen how systems like the DSM have historically pathologized queerness and continue to enforce narrow ideas of what’s “normal.” Why are we so quick to label everyday human struggles as disorders? How did we end up treating things like loneliness, grief, or shyness with medication? And what happens when we bring in philosophy, queer theory, and other humanities to rethink what “health” even means?

By unpacking the history of the DSM, the medicalization of life, and our cultural discomfort with uncertainty, I aim to describe a future where medicine is less about control and more about care—where doctors are allowed to sit with the unknown, and where being human doesn’t have to mean being sick. This project is an homage to the queer and alternative voices that came before me—but it’s also for everyone. Everyone should have the right to timely, effective, and personal medical care.

Quick Disclaimer

Mental illnesses are real, valid, and can be incredibly debilitating—trust me, I know. This zine is in no way intended to delegitimize the reality of mental health struggles or the life-changing benefits that therapy, medication, and diagnosis can offer. For many people, these tools are essential, even lifesaving. This work is not a rejection of medicine, but a critique of how modern (and not-so-distant past) medical systems have sometimes failed to account for nuance, culture, and the full complexity of being human. My hope is to open up space for conversation, reflection, and alternative ways of thinking about care — not to close the door on any particular path to healing.

The History of the DSM

The American Psychiatric Association's DSM has been thought to be the science-informed, authoritative guide to diagnosing mental illness in the United States (and only in the United States) for decades. Yet its history is about more than simply an expanding knowledge base concerning mental health — it is about deeply ingrained cultural concerns about normativity, identity, and control. [x] From a queer theoretical perspective, the DSM is not merely a clinical instrument, but is equally an apparatus of regulation marking the limits of normative subjectivity. Presented for the first time in 1952, the DSM has been revised six times, ever more pathologizing increasingly wide swaths of human behavior. With the DSM-III (1980), widely regarded as a revolution in psychiatry, there was an effort made to standardize diagnoses by moving toward its biomedical and symptom-focused model. This shift was couched as scientific advancement, but it reaffrimed the authority of psychiatry at the moment it was losing its legitimacy in culture [DSM: A history of psychiatry’s Bible].

This move may be understood as part of a larger biopolitics — a type of power which governs and specifies life through medicalizing so-called deviancy. Historically, queerness has itself been medicalized within the DSM: homosexuality was categorized as a disorder until 1973, and gender nonconformity is still couched in medical discourse through the diagnoses of "gender dysphoria.” [x] Despite the rewriting of language, the power relations remain. The DSM's categorizations do not merely categorize mental states — they create and impose norms about what sorts of lives are understandable, healthy, and valuable.

The Evolution of the DSM

The DSM's trajectory from its initial editions to the current DSM-5-TR illustrates a trend toward expanding diagnostic categories. This expansion has been both appreciated for increasing recognition of mental health issues and critiqued for potentially over-pathologizing normal variations in human behavior.

This broadening of diagnoses has significant implications. On one hand, it can lead to greater access to care for individuals experiencing distress. On the other, it risks labeling individuals unnecessarily, leading to stigma and the potential for overmedication. The DSM's influence extends beyond clinical settings, affecting insurance coverage, educational accommodations, and legal decisions, ultimately embedding its classifications deeply into societal structures.

Oddly enough, where there is queer theory, there is Marxist theory. The way the DSM deals with capitalist institutions — especially the pharmaceutical industry — has been the central target of such criticism (go figure!). The proliferation of diagnostic categories strongly correlates with the commercial development of many new drugs, leaving one to wonder about the motives of some of the inclusions in the manual. Critics say such a relationship can foster the medicalization of normality, in which natural experiences are recast as disorders that must be addressed with drugs.

I think Peter Conrad puts it very well: “The impact of medicine and medical concepts has expanded enormously in the past fifty years... the jurisdiction of medicine has grown to include new problems that previously were not deemed to fall within the medical sphere.” [The Medicalization of Society...] The money that pharmaceutical companies make off these substances is genuinely disgusting. Discovering new disorders open markets for medications, and the sanction of the DSM confers legitimacy on these conditions. It’s this dynamic that has led to favoring medication over other types of therapy, such as psychotherapy or community-based interventions, which may be more beneficial for some people (but don't make the big companies as much money).

The DSM has come under fire for conflicts of interest in the creation of diagnostic criteria and selection of disorders for inclusion. Research from Cosgrove et al. informs that a majority of members of DSM panels had money links to drug firms. [x] This is cause for serious concern about the role of profit motives in determining what gets designated as a mental illness—especially given that new diagnoses typically spur demand for new medications.

Think about the medicalization of the everyday: shyness as social anxiety disorder, bereavement as major depressive disorder, moodiness in adolescents as intermittent explosive disorder—and all these changes result in a new wave of prescriptions for SSRIs and other psychotropics. The financial incentives to pathologize behavior not only shape the approaches to treatment but also the definitions of illness itself.

This expanding scope of medical prerogative has redefined the limits of what was once thought to be “treatable," reinforcing the notion that all types of distress or deviation must be remedied through therapeutic channels. As was mentioned earlier, the DSM defined homosexuality as a mental illness—what gets pathologized usually mirrors not scientific agreement but social bias. Although that designation was rescinded more than 50 years ago, the taint of pathologization often still clings to non-normative identity in more insidious forms.

The DSM becomes a site in which capitalist and clinical interests intersect, producing “treatable” subjects and driving the commercialization of mental illness. According to Horwitz, diagnoses have not only evolved to serve as tools for treatment but also as tools for the construction of identity, access to treatment, and institutionalization [DSM: A history of psychiatry’s Bible]. For a few, diagnosis offers language for suffering and a path to support. However, queer theorists warn against the comfortable allure of legibility in a system that has historically pathologized and erased non-normative being. Thus, while diagnosis might provide solace in the form of legitimation, communality, and access, it also exacts a frame that threatens to reduce multifaceted lives to lists. For queer and raced communities, this might be a lifeline and a straitjacket—a means of being noticed but only within a frame that has exerted efforts to eliminate them.

Epistemology

So, here in a world in which queer lives tend to get misunderstood or overlooked, diagnosis of mental illness can provide a kind of epistemic acknowledgment. Epi-what-now?! In simple terms, epistemology is a branch of philosophy that deals with the nature, origin, boundaries, and value of knowledge. It deals with the core questions: What does it mean to understand something? How do we separate belief and truth? In medical and psychiatric fields, epistemology assists us in analyzing how a certain type of knowledge—such as diagnostic criteria or clinician expertise—is made, validated, and used, sometimes laying bare the cultural, political, and institutional power structures that determine what we think of as "capital ‘T’ truth" about the human body and mind. Being diagnosed can authenticate that a real process is occurring—when the cause of distress is structural in nature, e.g., homophobia, racism, family rejection. In cyberspace in particular, communities tend to congregate in respect to diagnosis—ADHD, BPD, autism, CPTSD. For queer people in some cases, these conditions may grant more cultural visibility than queerness does on its own, providing a legible cultural model through which to explain their difference. In his journal, Michel Foucault’s asserts that "medical language does not merely describe reality—it aids in the construction of reality."

Diagnoses do not merely name disorder; instead, they aid in the formation of the way individuals perceive themselves and are perceived by others. Neurodivergent conceptualizations appeal to many queer individuals because they upend normative timelines, ways of expressing themselves, and modes of relationship. In this sense, requesting a diagnosis isn't always a matter of fixing the self but rather a matter of resisting assimilation into cishetero-normative and neurotypical forms. It is a survival and articulation tactic in a hostile world. This holds particularly for the diagnosis of gender dysphoria, which it’s possible to reclaim as a means of negotiating healthcare systems while resisting their normative enforcement.

At the same time, we need to make space for paradox. Medical gaslighting—where women, queer individuals, and people of color have their symptoms disregarded—is an ongoing and damaging practice that exists. [x] But so does the pathologization of marginalized identity. A queer patient may be invalidated when complaining about pain but also rapidly diagnosed with a psychiatric condition that locates their distress within personal pathology instead of as a reaction to structural violence.

Embracing Uncertainty

In The Epistemology of the Closet, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick critiques the rigid binaries that dominate Western thought—healthy or sick, treatable or untreatable, known or unknown—and reveals how those dichotomies oversimplify the richness of human experience. Her metaphor of “the closet” is not limited to sexuality; it serves as an epistemological structure that organizes what is speakable and unspeakable, what is acknowledged and what is disavowed. Sedgwick observes that “the relations of the closet—the relations of the known and the unknown, the explicit and the inexplicit… have the potential for being peculiarly revealing, even paradigmatic, for the understanding of other kinds of epistemological structures.” This insight resonates deeply within psychiatry, a field where uncertainty is often met not with curiosity but with suspicion—and all too often, with diagnosis [The Epistemology of the Closet]. The DSM's relentless push to label and classify emotional distress speaks volumes about a larger cultural tendency to sidestep the discomfort of the unknown. Increasingly, medical practitioners—especially physicians—are expected to respond not only to physical illness but also to deeper, less tangible forms of suffering: loneliness, grief, disconnection, and the weight of systemic harm. When care becomes a process of regulation—when every ache must be labeled, coded, and treated—we risk erasing the profoundly human potential that lies within what medicine can’t yet name.

This call for a more humane approach echoes in modern critiques of clinical practice. Hilty et al. argues for a reimagining of medical education—one grounded in interdisciplinary learning and human-focused care. [x] Similarly, Amsterlaw et al. point out a troubling gap between reality and expectation: while patients often crave certainty and doctors strive to deliver it, certainty rarely captures the messy, fluid truth of human health. [x] That mismatch—between lived experience and rigid diagnostic structures—can lead to overmedication, fractured trust, and a sense of alienation that no prescription can fix.

So, in short, the DSM is not a neutral document. It is shaped by political, cultural, and economic forces—which, in turn, shapes us. So I offer this: what if naming is not always liberating? What if diagnosis sometimes deepens the exclusions it aims to heal?

Moving Toward a New Philosophy of Care

So, what can be done? It is not just practice but also philosophy that must change in medicine. We need systems that reward relationships, not solely diagnosis: longer visits, integrative teams, community-based care. Physicians should be taught to hear stories, not just checklists. The humanities in general, and queer theory in particular, supply critical tools: We challenge the binaries, derive worth from the inarticulate, and practice compassion for what can’t be cured.

What if practitioners were trained to say, “I don’t know — but I’m here with you”? What if healing was about more than just an absence of symptoms? This isn’t naive—it’s a demand for structural and cultural change. The medicine of the future is one that is permeated with slowness, multiplicity and uncertainty; not because these are failings, but because they are constitutive of caring itself.

Rethinking caring is not just a matter of philosophy—it is a matter of action. Are the reform efforts centered on access? Without the line to the doctor, the person who is listening and the shoulder to lean on, the vision stays silhouetted. Broad-case providers — PAs, NPs, DOs, MDs — are lifelines in low-access areas. But they are frequently overwhelmed, underpaid and asked to not only heal illness, but also grief, poverty and alienation. This is where reform needs to start. Increase access through mobile clinics, multilingual care and community-centered services. Invest in primary care as the foundation of health — not just as a gateway to specialists, but as a milieu for relational healing as well. Include humanities and critical theory in medical education. Dismantle silos between fields. Fund time, not efficiency. And restructure our pharmaceutical systems to prioritize ethics over profit (I’m so done with these drug ads!).

Finally, it’s not only a matter of fixing what’s broken. It’s about redefining what we mean by health—and who gets to define it.

[afterthegoldrushes]

i love my fuckass septum but i keep bumping it in my sleep and i never noticed how much my nose itches. and the saline spray is drying the fuck out of my nostrils

[tightjeansjavi]

I genuinely wonder if there is a timeline where I am comfortable in my sexuality, financially stable, and no mommy issues. Does that timeline exist?? 🥲

[hotelbitches-a]

the lesbian in me is so overpowering

[kittykatinabag]

forgive my immense privilege for this one post:

not my mom shocked that I'd choose to have the money over putting more equity into the stock account I didn't even want in the first place.

what does she expect? our country is going to be officially ruled by the oligarchy tomorrow and I'm not convinced we'll ever get another election again. of course I'm taking the cash (well money in the bank account not hard cash but tbh the banking system is like the one system I'm fairly confident won't be dismantled).

maybe my long shot desire for my 30th birthday isn't completely out of reach yet if the money is transferred within the next month.

[rebelspektrum]

Playing BG3 and didnt know much about the game beside a few characters names. So I made Maja a tiefling barbarian.

Lo and behold, her and Karlach are getting along pretty well 👉👈 girls kissing

[warpedpuppeteer]

Listen, I generally HATE any speculation about actors but Oli is either a really great ally or he's low-key queer himself 😭

[inkyquillstories]

Trading Medals Part 1 (A Body Swap Story)

Note: This story with more photos (nsfw) and videos is found on my discord! https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS

Mark Calloway had always been the kind of guy people noticed when he walked into a room. At 6'3" and 225 pounds of solid muscle, he carried himself with the effortless confidence of a college athlete at the top of his game. His dark brown hair was kept in a slightly messy yet undeniably charming style, and his deep-set hazel eyes often flickered with amusement or quiet contemplation, depending on the situation. Born on June 10th, Mark was a summer child through and through, thriving in the sun and always finding a way to be outside, whether it was training for football, hitting the gym, or just hanging out with friends. 

His love for sports extended beyond football—he had a knack for basketball and occasionally joined pickup games for fun. However, what most people didn’t know was his more private love for music. His guitar, often lying on his bed or propped against the wall in their dorm, was his escape when the pressure of school, sports, and expectations became overwhelming.

Despite his outward charisma, Mark carried a secret that weighed heavier on him than any of his rigorous weightlifting sessions. He was bisexual, though he had never fully acted on his attraction to men. Growing up in a conservative family, he knew that coming out wasn’t an option—not if he wanted to avoid the inevitable disappointment in his parents' eyes or the risk of losing the support that kept him moving forward in his football career. So, he kept it buried, deflecting with his easygoing personality and frequent dating life with women. Most people just assumed he was a classic ladies' man, a stereotype he let them believe. Beneath the surface, though, there was always an ache—a part of himself that he felt he had to lock away for the sake of his future.

Ethan Graves was the complete opposite of his roommate in almost every way. Standing at 5'7" and weighing around 140 pounds, he was wiry and lean, not out of any conscious effort but simply due to a lack of interest in physical activity. His short, slightly unkempt light brown hair framed a face that still had a lingering boyishness to it, paired with glasses that he often adjusted absentmindedly while focusing on something intently. Born on February 3rd, he was a winter child, preferring the indoors to the heat and chaos of the outside world. While Mark spent his time on the field, Ethan spent his nights hunched over a laptop, preparing Dungeons & Dragons campaigns, coding small projects, or getting lost in the latest fantasy novel.

Back in high school, Ethan had dated a fellow nerd, a girl who shared his love for tabletop games and sci-fi marathons. They had been good together, but when college decisions came around, they knew they were heading in different directions. They ended things amicably, both understanding that a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work. Since then, Ethan hadn’t really pursued dating—between his studies in Engineering, his online gaming sessions, and his occasional self-doubt about his looks and social skills, he figured relationships could wait. His world was one of structured logic and imaginative escapism, where he could be the hero in a fantasy realm rather than feeling out of place in real life. Despite his quiet nature, Ethan wasn’t completely isolated. He had friends—mostly online or fellow D&D enthusiasts—and, more importantly, he had Mark. Though they seemed like an odd match as roommates, over time, they had formed an unshakable bond that neither of them had expected.

When Mark and Ethan were first assigned as roommates during their freshman year, Ethan had been apprehensive. Mark reminded him too much of the guys from high school—the ones who mocked his love for Dungeons & Dragons and made gym class a nightmare.

But his worries faded almost instantly when Mark greeted him with an easy smile and a laid-back attitude. Unlike the bullies from his past, Mark wasn’t just friendly—he was genuinely kind. He never mocked Ethan’s interests, never looked down on him for preferring books over sports. Instead, he respected their differences, and over time, Ethan found himself enjoying Mark’s company far more than he expected.

Ethan preferred to stay in their dorm when he wasn’t in class, spending his time studying, streaming shows, or working on his latest D&D campaign. He was meticulous about keeping his space clean, making sure his desk was organized and his bed neatly made every morning. 

Mark, on the other hand, was hardly ever around. If he wasn’t in class or at football practice, he was at parties, on dates, or just out with friends. When he was in their dorm, his presence was hard to miss—his side of the room was perpetually messy, with discarded clothes near his bed and the lingering scent of sweat and cologne. More than once, Ethan had walked in to find Mark passed out on his bed, still in his practice gear, the room filled with the unmistakable musky scent of an exhausted athlete.

Despite their differences, they made their arrangement work. Ethan knew that when Mark brought friends over, it was time for him to retreat to the library. When Mark needed the room for a date, Ethan would take the hint and find somewhere else to be. Mark, in turn, always made sure to make it up to him, usually with snacks or small gestures of appreciation. Their odd dynamic confused those around them—Mark’s football buddies didn’t get why he spent so much time with a nerd, and Ethan’s gaming friends couldn’t understand why he tolerated a jock’s messy habits. But the truth was, they had become more than just roommates—they were best friends.

Late at night, when the dorm was quiet, they’d sometimes just talk for hours. That was when Ethan learned about Mark’s struggles with his sexuality and his fear of coming out to his family. In turn, Mark listened as Ethan admitted his own insecurities—his struggle with self-image, his difficulty finding a girlfriend, and the lingering doubt that he wasn’t interesting or attractive enough.

They were each other’s confidants in ways no one else could be. Mark even took it upon himself to get Ethan into working out, though Ethan’s sporadic dedication to fitness left much to be desired. Meanwhile, Ethan was always ready to help Mark with his studies, ensuring that he didn’t fall behind in classes he found difficult.

Three years passed, and their friendship only grew stronger. Their respective social circles were always surprised by how close they were, with some friends even overlapping. Mark’s teammates recognized Ethan as someone important to him, while Ethan’s gaming buddies gradually warmed up to Mark’s presence. At the end of the day, they had each other’s backs in ways that mattered most. They were more than just roommates—they were brothers in everything but blood.

Ethan barely looked up from his laptop when the dorm room door slammed open, but the frantic energy that followed made him pause. Mark stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his face a mix of stress and desperation. His usually confident posture was gone, replaced by jittery movements as he ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Ethan glanced at the time. It was a little past three in the afternoon—Mark should’ve been at practice. “Dude, you look like you just saw a ghost,” Ethan remarked, adjusting his glasses. 

Mark didn’t laugh. Instead, he strode into the room, dropping his gym bag onto his unmade bed with a heavy thud. “I’m screwed,” he blurted, his voice uneven. “I had a test today. A huge one. I totally forgot about it.” Ethan blinked, not entirely surprised. This wasn’t the first time Mark had neglected an exam, but the sheer panic in his voice meant this was different. “Okay,” Ethan said slowly, shutting his laptop. “We’ve been through this before. You cram, I quiz you, you barely pass but still pass. We got this.” Mark groaned, rubbing his temples. “No, man, you don’t get it. I don’t have time to cram. I have to take it in—” he checked his phone “—less than an hour.” Ethan winced. “Oh. Yeah. That’s... bad.”  

Mark sat down heavily on his bed, looking almost physically ill. “If I fail this, I fail the class. If I fail the class, I can’t graduate on time and I can’t play in the championship game. This is my entire future, Ethan.” There was an unmistakable vulnerability in his voice, and for a moment, Ethan genuinely felt bad for him. “Okay, so what do we do?” he asked. Mark looked up at him, eyes flickering with something intense. “You’re gonna take it for me.” 

Ethan nearly laughed, but the serious expression on Mark’s face made him stop. “Mark. That’s impossible. We look nothing alike.” Mark stood abruptly and pointed at Ethan. “That’s why you’re gonna wear my clothes and pretend to be me.” Ethan scoffed. “Dude, I’m half your size. People would notice.” Mark groaned, frustrated. “Not if we swap bodies.” Ethan stared at him. “…What?” 

Without hesitation, Mark reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a medallion. It was an old, circular pendant, made of tarnished silver, with intricate carvings along its surface. Ethan frowned. “What the hell is that?” Mark held it up. “It’s been in my family for generations. My grandpa always said it had magic in it.” Ethan crossed his arms. “Mark, be real. Magic doesn’t exist.” Mark smirked, his usual cocky confidence flickering back. “Oh yeah? Then swap bodies with me. Prove me wrong.” 

Ethan hesitated, looking between Mark and the medallion. He was a man of logic—this was ridiculous. But Mark was so insistent, so utterly convinced, that curiosity started creeping in. “Fine,” he sighed. “What do we do?” Mark grinned, tossing him a shirt. “First, we swap clothes.”

Ethan hesitated as Mark tugged his own shirt over his head, tossing it onto the bed before reaching for Ethan’s. Without thinking, Mark yanked Ethan’s shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion, leaving the smaller man momentarily stunned. “Come on, no time to be shy,” Mark said, handing over his own shirt.

Ethan took it with some reluctance. The fabric was damp, still warm from Mark’s body, and the scent hit him immediately—musky, a mix of sweat, deodorant, and whatever aftershave Mark used. It was the kind of scent that clung to Mark’s bed and his gym bag, an undeniably masculine smell. Not bad, but overwhelming to someone who wasn’t used to wearing another guy’s clothes. Ethan grimaced but pulled it over his head anyway. It draped over him like a loose tarp, the sleeves nearly reaching his elbows, the fabric practically swallowing his lean frame.

Mark, meanwhile, pulled Ethan’s shirt over his head, immediately feeling how snug it was. The cotton clung to his broad chest and shoulders, and he had to tug at the collar to make it sit right. The sleeves were tight around his biceps, emphasizing just how much bigger he was. The scent was different—clean, fresh, with a faint trace of laundry detergent and something subtle that was just Ethan. Mark smirked, flexing his arm slightly. “Damn, dude, this is tight,” he muttered.

Ethan looked down at himself in Mark’s oversized shirt, then lifted his arm and flexed it just for curiosity’s sake. His usual frame was almost lost in the baggy fabric, but he still went through the motion. “Yeah, well, this is ridiculous on me,” he replied, shaking his head. Then, on impulse, he lifted the edge of the sleeve and took a whiff. The scent of Mark hit him again, even stronger now that he was fully wearing the shirt. It was strange—he smelled like Mark now.

Mark caught what he was doing and grinned. “You getting a good sniff there, bud?” he teased, lifting his own arm and sniffing the armpit of Ethan’s shirt in return. The scent was subtle, but pleasant. Different from his usual smell, but not bad. He chuckled. “I don’t smell like me anymore.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Then, Mark grabbed a pair of Ethan’s pants and tossed them onto the bed. “Might as well go all in,” he said, unbuttoning his own jeans. Ethan hesitated for a second before doing the same, the moment suddenly feeling strangely intimate.

Then, Mark held up a pair of his boxers, eyes darting between them and Ethan, uncertainly. Ethan exhaled sharply, muttering, “This is so weird,” but he still stripped off his own boxers and slid Mark’s on. The difference was immediate—the waistband fit loosely, the material clinging to his skin in a way that felt unfamiliar yet… oddly satisfying. Mark, meanwhile, slid into Ethan’s underwear, the fabric feeling tighter than he was used to. He shifted, adjusting to the fit, then let out a low chuckle. “Well, now we’re officially swapped.”

They turned slightly away from each other as they swapped boxers and jeans, though Ethan couldn’t help but glance at Mark struggling to pull up his boxers and  jeans down over his more muscular thighs. Ethan meanwhile slid into Mark’s looser pants with ease. The fabric barely hugged his waist, and he had to cinch the belt tight to keep them from slipping. He laughed.

Mark stretched once before grabbing the medallion. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, gripping the metal piece together. The carvings seemed to pulse under their fingers, sending a strange warmth through their hands.

Mark took a deep breath and began the incantation:

“I, Mark Christopher Bennett, wish to swap bodies with Ethan Daniel Graves.”

The medallion pulsed. Ethan hesitated for only a second before responding:

“I, Ethan Daniel Graves, wish to swap bodies with Mark Christopher Bennett.”

A tingle spread through Ethan’s arms. He could feel it creeping along his skin, like static electricity building.

Mark kept going, his voice steady:

“I, Mark Christopher Bennett, accept Ethan Graves’ body as my own.”

Ethan swallowed hard, following suit.

“I, Ethan Daniel Graves, accept Mark Bennett’s body as my own.”

The warmth turned into something hotter, something that crawled through their veins. Their skin tingled, their muscles tightened, and the medallion itself grew almost unbearably warm.

Then, together, they spoke the final line:

Mark: “I am Ethan Graves, and he is Mark Christopher Bennett.”

Ethan: “I am Mark Bennett, and he is Ethan Daniel Graves.”

The medallion flashed brightly, and then everything shifted.

As soon as the final words of the spell left their mouths, the medallion flared with a brilliant, golden light. A strange force gripped their bodies, like an invisible current pulling at them from the inside out. It started subtly—a tingling in their fingers, a strange weightlessness in their limbs—but quickly escalated into something far more intense.

Mark was the first to notice the shift. A peculiar sensation crawled through his toes, as if they were shrinking. He looked down in shock as his feet visibly pulled inward, the size and shape rapidly changing. His broad, calloused feet—hardened from years of training—were dwindling, the veins and rough patches vanishing. The structure of his foot narrowed, the arches lifting slightly as they transformed into Ethan’s smaller, leaner feet. He staggered slightly, gripping the edge of the desk for balance as his legs followed suit. His powerful thighs and muscular calves trembled before steadily deflating, the firm bulk of his quads thinning into a shape far less defined. His legs weren’t just shrinking; they were getting weaker. He could feel it—his strength slipping away, his body losing the athletic power it had spent years building.

“Shit… my legs…” Mark muttered, watching them pull inward. His height was vanishing, too. He could feel himself sinking, the world tilting as his perspective shifted. The floor was closer than it had ever been before, the comfortable feeling of towering over Ethan now slipping away. Panic flickered in his chest. I’m getting shorter. I’m actually getting shorter.

Ethan, on the other hand, gasped as the exact opposite overtook him. A deep warmth spread through his legs, a sensation unlike anything he had ever felt before. His feet stretched, the fabric of his socks straining as they expanded in size. His toes elongated, his entire foot widening as it reshaped into Mark’s larger, more rugged ones. The floor felt different beneath them—his balance was shifting, adjusting to the broader, sturdier foundation. 

Then came the legs. Ethan felt a rush of power surge through him as his thighs stretched, his femurs lengthening to accommodate the sudden growth. His calves filled out, muscle taking shape where there had been none before. His legs were no longer thin and unimpressive—they were strong, athletic, the kind that could launch a person forward with speed and force. He straightened instinctively, marveling at how natural it felt to stand taller. He wasn’t used to this perspective—the room looked different, the angle foreign but exhilarating.

“Whoa…” Ethan exhaled, running his hands over his thighs. They were firm, packed with muscle that wasn’t there before. He lifted one leg slightly, feeling the sheer strength behind it, the weight distribution completely different from before. This… this is incredible. I feel stronger already.

Mark, however, wasn’t sharing in the enthusiasm. He glanced up at Ethan—no, Mark’s body now—and immediately felt a surge of discomfort. For the first time since they’d met, he had to look up at Ethan. His former roommate, the guy who was always shorter than him, was now taller—standing confidently in a body that Mark had worked so hard to build.

Mark scowled. “Damn it… this is weird.” He shifted his weight, feeling how much lighter his body was. His legs, once filled with explosive power, felt comparatively frail. He tried flexing his calves, but there wasn’t much there to flex. His thighs lacked the tension he was used to, the once-familiar bulk gone. It was disorienting—like his body had been stripped of something vital.

Ethan, meanwhile, grinned, shifting his stance and rolling his shoulders. “This is insane,” he murmured, testing out his new longer legs, even bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. The sensation of strength beneath him was intoxicating. He had always envied Mark’s athletic build, and now… now he had it. Or at least, he was starting to.

Mark huffed. “Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. This is temporary.” He tried adjusting his footing again, struggling to reconcile with how much smaller he felt. His balance wasn’t bad—Ethan had always been relatively stable on his feet—but it was different. His former presence, his towering confidence, had quite literally shrunk.

Ethan couldn’t stop grinning. “Right, right… temporary.” But as he stretched out his new, longer legs, testing the newfound control he had over them, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it to be.

Mark barely had time to react before he felt an odd pulling sensation deep within him. It was like something was shifting, retracting, and reshaping from within. A strange tingling spread from his lower abdomen, creeping downward, as if his entire center of gravity was being rewritten. His breath hitched as a cool sensation pulsed through his groin, making him instinctively shudder. He felt like his balls retracted nearer towards his abdomen while the girth and length of his member got slimmer and shorter. He immediately grasped his groin feeling a smaller package.

Ethan, meanwhile, gasped as warmth spread through his lower body, a rush of unfamiliar weight settling between his legs. It wasn’t just size—everything about the proportions, the way it rested, the way it felt connected to his body—was completely different. He felt heavier, more substantial, and a nervous thrill ran through him as he shifted his stance, adjusting to the unfamiliar presence. A small smirk tugged at his lips. This was real. It was really happening. He felt his balls get bigger, fuller, heavier, and lower. While the shaft got longer, thicker, and sensitive. His new soft member is bigger than his older tool even when hard.

Ethan yanked off his newly oversized shirt, eager to take in the full extent of his transformation. As the fabric slipped over his head, he was met with a sight that made his breath hitch—his abs, once lean and barely defined, were now replaced by a set of toned, muscular ridges. His stomach was flat, his obliques sharp, and his chest, now completely smooth, broadened in a way that made him feel powerful. He ran his hands over the newly sculpted contours of his body, relishing the firmness, the raw strength packed into every inch. A grin stretched across his face as he flexed, feeling his core tighten with an effortless strength he had never possessed before.

Mark, meanwhile, was much slower to remove his own shirt. As he pulled it over his head, he was met with an unfamiliar softness where his solid six-pack used to be. His once taut and chiseled abs had faded, replaced by a more average, softer stomach. It wasn’t flabby, but it lacked the definition he had worked years to maintain. Worse, there was now a light dusting of hair spreading across his chest and belly, something he had never had before. His fingers instinctively brushed over it, feeling the texture of hair that wasn’t his, and he frowned. Looking up, he saw Ethan—his own body—standing taller than him, grinning with clear satisfaction. It made his stomach twist. He had never felt small before, but now, standing in Ethan’s body, he was distinctly aware of how much less imposing he was.

Ethan, still reveling in his new form, lifted his arms and flexed, watching with satisfaction as the biceps and triceps bulged under his skin. His arms were massive compared to what he was used to—thicker, stronger, and undeniably powerful. 

He gave his right arm a playful squeeze, feeling the solid muscle beneath his palm, and laughed. "Damn, Mark, you’ve been holding out on me," he teased, admiring how his veins faintly surfaced along his forearm as he moved. He turned his arms, feeling the weight of them, the sheer strength that came with every motion. It was exhilarating.

Mark, in contrast, felt the unsettling sensation of his arms shrinking. His once thick, muscular biceps slimmed down, losing mass and strength. His shoulders narrowed, and his forearms thinned, making him feel… weak. He flexed instinctively, but instead of the satisfying tension of coiled strength, he felt only a modest resistance. His arms weren’t scrawny, but they weren’t his either. And the worst part? He could see Ethan, still in his body, basking in the newfound strength. "This is so weird," Mark muttered, feeling out of place in his own skin—or rather, Ethan’s.

Then he caught a glimpse of his underarms and frowned. The hair was lighter, finer than what he was used to—his own armpits had always been dark and thick. Ethan, meanwhile, lifted his arms and let out a low chuckle. His armpits were now covered in Mark’s usual black, coarse hair, and with it came a distinct, musky scent. He leaned in slightly, taking a quick, curious sniff, and smirked. "Damn, I smell like you now," he remarked, flexing his arms again for good measure. "And you? Bet you smell like me."

Mark, reluctantly, raised an arm and sniffed. Sure enough, the scent was completely different—cleaner, milder, less sweaty than what he was used to. He exhaled sharply, a mix of discomfort and disbelief washing over him. Everything about this was so wrong. Ethan, on the other hand, was clearly loving every second of it, and that only made Mark’s frustration grow.

Ethan grinned at him. "Man, this is awesome," he said, stretching his arms above his head. "I feel amazing."

Mark was still coming to terms with his smaller, leaner body when he suddenly felt an odd tightening around his throat. He instinctively placed a hand on his neck, feeling the way it slimmed down, losing some of the natural bulk and thickness he had always taken for granted. His Adam’s apple wasn’t as pronounced, and his entire neck felt… weaker. It wasn’t a dramatic change, but it was enough to make him uneasy. Meanwhile, Ethan let out a surprised grunt, rolling his shoulders as he rubbed his own thickening neck. He could feel the new mass settling in, his Adam’s apple growing more prominent, his throat stronger.

And then they spoke.

“Dude, what the hell?” Mark blurted, his voice coming out higher, softer—exactly like Ethan’s. His eyes widened in shock as he clapped a hand over his mouth. That wasn’t his voice. It was Ethan’s.

Ethan, on the other hand, let out a low chuckle. Except it wasn’t his chuckle—it was Mark’s deep, confident, almost velvety voice. He smirked. “Holy crap,” he said, testing out the voice again. His words were smooth, rich, carrying the same natural charm and weight Mark always had. “This is so weird.” He reached up to his throat again, feeling the difference. His voice felt powerful, commanding—something he had never experienced before.

Mark shook his head, disturbed by how foreign his own voice sounded to his ears. “Okay, this is seriously messing with my head,” he muttered, hearing the unfamiliar tone escape his lips again.

But the changes weren’t done yet.

Mark suddenly felt a strange tingling across his face, a sensation of shifting bones and muscles. His jawline subtly reshaped, becoming less sharp, more rounded. His facial features softened in a way that felt foreign to him. The skin on his cheeks and chin prickled, and when he reached up to touch his face, he felt sparse facial hair sprouting—something he wasn’t used to. His normally smooth, well-groomed jaw now had the same scattered, fine scruff Ethan always had. But what truly threw him off was the sensation on his scalp. His thick black hair lightened before his eyes, the color shifting to Ethan’s usual light brown. Not only that, but it grew longer, shaggier, falling slightly messier over his forehead.

Ethan, meanwhile, was feeling the exact opposite. His jawline sharpened, becoming more chiseled, more defined. His once ordinary features morphed into something undeniably striking—more angular, more attractive. He could feel the slight stubble growing in, thicker than what he was used to, covering his chin and upper lip with a rougher texture. He turned his head slightly, feeling the natural confidence that came with such a strong, masculine face. But the biggest change was his hair—his usual light brown locks darkened to an inky black, shortening slightly into Mark’s usual well-maintained, styled cut.

Both of them locked eyes, and their expressions mirrored each other’s shock.

They had completely swapped.

From head to toe, there was nothing left of their original selves. Mark, once tall and powerful, now stood shorter and leaner, wearing Ethan’s face, voice, and body. And Ethan, once small and unassuming, now stood in Mark’s athletic, towering form, exuding the presence and charisma that had always belonged to his friend.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just stared at each other, absorbing the sheer impossibility of what had just happened.

Ethan was the first to break the silence. He grinned, flashing Mark’s signature smirk. “Damn,” he said, running a hand through his thick black hair. “I look good.”

Mark groaned, rubbing his temples. “This is insane.” His voice—Ethan’s voice—made it even weirder.

Ethan flexed his arms one more time, admiring the sheer size and power behind his new body. “Alright,” he said, flashing Mark a confident grin. “Time to ace that exam.”

Mark, arms crossed over his smaller chest, let out a sigh. “You better, dude.”

Ethan grabbed Mark’s discarded shirt from the bed, the fabric still warm and slightly damp from Mark’s body. He pulled it over his head, feeling the familiar sensation of soft cotton—but now on a body that wasn’t his own.

Mark tossed Ethan’s phone to him, and Ethan caught it effortlessly. His new reflexes were sharper, his grip stronger—it was surreal. They exchanged their belongings, including their wallets, IDs, and keys, ensuring every detail was covered. Ethan slung Mark’s backpack over his shoulder, the weight feeling significantly lighter thanks to his new strength. Taking one last look in the mirror, he smirked at the reflection of Mark’s face grinning back at him. With a deep breath, he turned and left the dorm, heading straight for the college building.

Walking across campus was a bizarre experience. Students he didn’t even recognize greeted him with nods and fist bumps, some calling out, “Yo, Mark!” He responded as naturally as possible, slipping into Mark’s easygoing persona. His larger strides carried him effortlessly to the exam hall, and when he entered, the professor barely gave him a second glance.

Sitting at Mark’s desk, Ethan picked up his pen and started the test. The questions were straightforward—nothing too difficult for him. But he knew he couldn’t make it perfect. So, he deliberately made a few errors, adding just enough mistakes to make it believable. He worked at a steady pace, finishing with confidence but ensuring the score would be in a safe passing range. As he handed in the exam, he felt a surge of satisfaction. He had done it.

Meanwhile, back in the dorm, Mark sat on Ethan’s bed, arms crossed, feeling restless. He had thought about playing video games, but the idea didn’t excite him the way it normally would in his own body. He flipped through the TV channels, landing on a football game. Normally, he would have been fully engaged, analyzing plays, cheering for his team—but now, it just felt… uninteresting. It was like watching from a distance, as if it no longer mattered to him.

He sighed and let his eyes wander around the room. His gaze landed on Ethan’s bookshelf, packed with books he had never paid much attention to. Out of curiosity, he reached for one, flipping it open. The first page caught his interest, and before he knew it, he was a few chapters in.

Mark had never been much of a reader beyond what was necessary for school, but something about the way the story unfolded intrigued him. The world-building, the characters, the tension—it was all strangely captivating. He leaned back against the wall, fully absorbed, losing track of time as he devoured page after page.

For the first time, Mark realized he might have been missing out on something.

Ethan pushed open the door to their dorm, his larger frame moving effortlessly as he stepped inside. He had grown more comfortable in Mark’s body over the course of the day, the way his powerful legs carried him with ease, the way his deep voice naturally rolled out when he spoke. The weight of Mark’s broad shoulders no longer felt foreign—it felt natural, like he had been this way all his life. He was still getting used to the constant attention from people on campus, but he had played along, nodding and responding to greetings with the same confidence Mark always carried.

As he entered, his eyes landed on Mark—his real body—sitting on Ethan’s bed, hunched over a book. Ethan raised an eyebrow. Mark was so focused that he didn’t even notice Ethan at first. The sight was amusing, almost surreal. The guy who usually spent his time running drills and lifting weights was now flipping through pages like he was lost in another world.

Mark glanced up, realizing he had been caught. His face—Ethan’s face—flushed slightly. “Uh… I just got curious,” he muttered, closing the book a little too quickly.

Ethan grinned. “Dude, you don’t have to explain. It’s a good book, right?”

Mark hesitated, then let out a chuckle. “Yeah… I guess it is.”

Ethan tossed his backpack onto Mark’s bed—his bed for now—and leaned against the desk. “Anyway, mission accomplished. I took your exam, made a few mistakes so it wasn’t too obvious, but you’re definitely passing.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “Dude! Thank you! You saved my ass.” He sat up straighter, shaking his head in relief. “Seriously, I owe you big time.”

Ethan shrugged. “No problem. It was kinda fun, actually.”

Mark thought for a moment, then smirked. “Y’know… it’s Friday. How about we stay swapped for the weekend?”

Ethan blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah,” Mark said, leaning back. “Think about it. You get to enjoy being me for a couple more days—no exams, no engineering stress. Just football, working out, hanging with friends. And I get to chill, read some more, maybe play some video games.” He smirked. “Call it your reward.”

Ethan’s lips curled into a grin. “Alright. I’m in.”

With that, they fully embraced the swap. They agreed to sleep in each other’s beds, sealing the illusion further. And for the rest of the weekend, they would call each other by their swapped names—Mark would respond as Ethan, and Ethan would respond as Mark.

The end (for now; Part 2 coming soon)

[coriphallus]

DA: The Veilguard Spoiler review pt2 - The Grime

this is a hard one to tackle without strawmaning anyone because itll be a direct response to alot of defense ive seen for the games morality system so ill just start by saying, iykyk

never a genre has been better equipped to discuss ethics than the interactive medium of games and yes, bioware games have been doing it since baldurs gate and no, theyve not always been 'centrist' and 'conservative'. im not even gonna entertain that idea. do you remember the cultural landscape DA:O released to? the landscape it was developed in? dont give me that just because zevran doesnt write in his little notes -that you can conveniently read- 'gay good. not me but me bisexual'

Thedas is a flawed world and its a world thats just as desperate to hang on to its status quo as our own. every time you play an elf thats thriving, or a human thats queer, or a mage thats not institutionalised you exist in a world that doesnt want you, it is an act of defiance that you do.

im sure we can all see why these games were so popular with the audience they can only weakly try to pander to today.

derailing time again; so one of my favourite paintings of all time is saturn devouring his son. it makes me feel so uncomfortable that it gave me nightmares as a child, and i still cant look at it without feeling this knot in my throat. i hate it. i hate how it makes me feel, how that man looks at me in terror like its begging me for help while cannibalising another. weird story but i was bewitched by that painting as a little kid.

it is not a well drawn painting, the proportions are all over the place, brush strokes crude and inelegant. it doesnt even have a deeper story nor was it intended for an audience. i will never know what goya thought of when drawing it.

i thought alot about that painting later in my life when i was struggling with mental health problems, i thought about goya alot too as an adult and after learning about his life. i stared at his paintings and remembered when i told my dad that i hated [saturns] big eyes and hed jokingly said "it would be scarier if he didnt have eyes"

i know what the drawing looks like now, nearly everyone with a little access to the internet does. if somebody removed saturn from it, we'd still be left with a brutalised headless carcass of a man in a canvas too big for itself. if we removed that too all we'd be left with would be void.

i dont want to live in a world where all i know of goya is his rococo work, i dont want to stare at the painting of a void knowing what filled it before. i hated every second of germinale but i never wanted it to be anything other than itself, the story it tells could never hold credence otherwise.

DAV has done its best to paint over it, but its still on the old canvas and i cant look away from the negative space its left, i know whats under it and it unsettles me, infuriates me. it hands me a palette with baby blues and pinks and tells me to paint over it to make a prettier painting. didnt i hate the eyes? wasnt it gross before?

i am not going to write why we need some grime in art, but its absence is disheartening. and to those who say hanged people in the streets or blighted villagers is dark and mature ill say no. its a kids idea of maturity, its the aesthetic of it with no substance. it means nothing to me if rook can just drench themselves in gallons of blight as they crawl through it. the horror of blight has never been the black goo and slimy tentacles, or the monster woman with way too many tits. it is watching people you love slowly fade away, it is a woman who was forced to cannibalise the contaminated flesh of her friends because the woman she loved betrayed her, it was the sheer scale and inevitability of it.

one area we go to is overrun by it and the game begs me to feel hopeful that flowers are growing again when it never let me lose hope. people have already prevailed, they have roofs over their heads and a steady supply of food on their tables. their spirit is unwavering.

its bad, everybody says. the sky is grey and soil is blackened, as my rook turns some statues to access a haunted house whos inhabitants are long gone and the only story they could ever tell is gone with them.

if the question is do i want to see famine? plague? misery? abuse? assault? the answer is yes. yes. i want to see it all of the filth. i rather face the fucking monster head on with its big bulging eyes and misshapen limbs than stare at the abyss its absence leaves on the canvas.

and if nothing else, this bastardization is disrespectful to the people who gave the IP its fame.

Why choose to be good?

back in the bsn days ive wondered why, even in a fictional universe where your choices have no real-life repercussions what-so-ever, players had more 'good' playthroughts than 'bad'?

what happens when you start killing NPCs, when youre needlessly mean to them? the game actively closes off its own content. you get less out of the game. just as, completely incidentally, you'd get less out of your life if you just started killing everyone around you. The world would be emptier, youd be alone.

in that quote i stole from good place chidi doesnt ask "why be good?" the wording is painfully deliberate. doing good is always a choice, and often not the easy one. what makes the act matter is that you chose to do it, even when given 6 other options not to. did i stop in the middle of an important quest to help a man retrieve an heirloom from a darkspawn infested hut? did i hear what that heirloom meant to him?

i cant stop thinking about that speech ever since playing this game after knowing its predecessors.

So, why do it then? Why choose to be good, every day, if there is no guaranteed reward we can count on, now or in the afterlife? I argue that we choose to be good because of our bonds with other people and our innate desire to treat them with dignity. Simply put, we are not in this alone.

i cant stop looking at this game that spits on its own legacy and think how could they have missed what fundamentally makes us human so bad, what makes us relate and empathise with eachother. what makes us pick the option to interact with an npc who openly hates what hawke is, and allow us to see the traumatised man underneath.

these characters of fiction are written by real people. i have absolutely nothing in common with a guy from canada yet for a brief moment in time i feel a sense of camaraderie as ive felt with goya that i couldnt articulate as a kid.

Nothing too terrible

DAV says it over and over again -as its wont to do with every piece of its flimsy morality- that people can change, people can be redeemed yet it shines as the game with most static characters in its franchise. it simply says things, and since it has nothing to show for it it makes sure to say it repeatedly, in case you missed it.

so when i first played DAO i was in high school, i started with a human noble because fresh out of dark side edgy kotor fame i wanted to be a posh brat. also because, ya kno, we were poor my entire life up until that point and i wanted to have power.

i committed to it, even as the game stripped cousland of everything he had, because i thought a man like him would. i picked the racist options, the sexist options, the options a man in couslands place would. halfway point of the game as i exhausted the initial dialogues something happened; this man who got paid to kill people, who showed no remorse nor care for his victims, begged my cousland to stil his blade.

and i did. i thought maybe he would be as confused as i was, maybe he had a moment of clarity but from thereon bit by bit he was less of an asshole. the characters grew around me, and my character grew around them. i chose to be good because -textually- we were in this together, at the end of all things.

rook is not a character, theyre a mascot. and quite frankly i think they may be a very evangelical mascot because they remind me of evangelical preachings of jesus more than the man from the bible (and i say this as someone whos only exposure to christianity has been through foreign media and the bible ive read that one time). they are the epitome of do no evil and their existence hinges on the frail concept of moral purity. theyre not a person trying to do good, who wants to be good, they are 'good'

-and lemme tell you its a wild choice to have someone like that locked in a prison of 'regret'-

rook can be mean to only one person in the game, and thats someone they dont even have a personal beef with for the most part. but even then they would be shouting at a wall because the game doesnt only undermine them with its narrative, but also every npc in the game suddenly gets possessed by the ghost of wattpad rejects past for a moment to tell them everyone can be redeemed. and i believe it because i played the other games, i believe it because i know zevran and sten and morrigan, isabela and thom and iron bull and dorian. i know it because i can see the vague shapes behind the new coat of paint but i am not rook.

so no, the game fails to get people-can-change points by its own merit, and it cannot gain points from its prequels because it destroyed them. none of those characters i watched grow exist in this universe. zevran cant exist with DAV crows, fenris` story cant exist in an imperium with invisible slaves only glimpsed through empty cages and broken chains left scattered on the ground. i dont know which morrigan this NPC is, is it the woman who grew to learn kindness, who begged to sleep with her friend just to save them despite knowing it would play into the plans of a destiny she so desperately tried to break free from? or is she the clever puppet her mother groomed her to be who wanted to harness the power of a god? i dont know her, i dont know this dorian or this isabela beyond their names ipso facto this is not a sequel.

bellara asks an assassin why he is trying to save the world and his answer is "ive done some things in the past im not too proud of. nothing too terrible, but some of it was bad." and i can hear the games desperation for me to not engage with its material in that 'nothing too terrible'

lucanis never killed anyone innocent, taash never harmed an animal they could shoo of or reason with, emmrich venerates the dead and is friends with every wisp he pulls to use in menial labour, davrin joined the wardens willingly because he wanted to do good...

rook tells harding that her anger is justified when shes not even allowed anger of her own.

nothing too terrible.

aside from creating boring and nonsensical and static characters it creates a dreadful echochamber that we're forced to sustain. No taash is not valid, their gender is but their behaviour is not and for the character to grow and mature it needs to be addressed. lucanis doesnt need to be pampered in shock blankets he needs to see how repressing his problems and jeopardising his health puts people around him in danger etc etc. they are adults and they need to learn more complex ways of healing. and if rooks flaw is that theyre an enabler, then that needs to be acknowledged by the narrative in some way too, and not mindlessly endorsed because they say some buzzwords.

none of these interpersonal relationships feels real because none of these people feel real beyond some draft of themes and tropes. some interactions literally remind me of two bots in facebook comments

i look at this dialogue wheel with familiar symbols and all im reminded of is hawke telling carver he carries every death with him, of him telling his uncle that he wasnt fast enough, of him begging the person he loves to tell him that his mothers death wasnt his fault.

and they dont. they just sit there with him.

[emmg]

I just saw a post where someone said they were surprised so many people romanced Emmrich with a female Rook because he’s so “clearly gay-coded,” and…….. my verbose ass has thoughts

Let’s unpack this, because I’ve seen this type of thing before. I worked as a model for 11 years. I’ve been around the block: North America, Europe, East Asia, you name it. And let me tell you, I’ve met plenty of men like Emmrich in this industry. What do I mean by “men like Emmrich”? I mean the kind who are metrosexual, a little vain, a little fruity, a little petty, but at the end of the day, genuinely kind. You know, the ones who care about their hair but will also hold your purse without complaint.

So where exactly are we pulling this “gay-coded” thing from? Because he peppers his speech with dears and darlings? Because he’s got a certain lilt to his voice and wears enough jewelry to make a magpie jealous? Sure, those things could be seen as stereotypically “gay,” but let’s dig deeper here.

First of all, he canonically swings both ways, so let’s just celebrate the man living his bisexual best life. Secondly, and more importantly, can we stop acting like sexuality is a one-size-fits-all package of traits? It’s a spectrum. Emmrich being soft-spoken, stylish, and emotionally open doesn’t automatically place him in one category. Hyper-masculinity (or the lack thereof) is not the defining feature of someone’s sexuality, nor is it the sole determinant of how they’re “coded.”

Honestly, I feel like this says more about how we’ve been conditioned to interpret certain traits than it does about Emmrich himself. Maybe he just likes his damn jewelry. Maybe he just calls people dear because he’s polite and it makes him feel good. And maybe, just maybe, that has nothing to do with his attraction to men, women, or anyone else.

Let him have the best of both worlds, folks. He’s out here thriving. Let’s not box him in.

[gilmorenights]

Okay so I know he's out Vat7k exclusive but he is in team radical so what are your Varian headcanons??

YAYYY VARIAN MY BELOVED

Used to love when it snowed because it meant he got to go sledding with his dad, but then he developed an intense fear/hatred of snow because of the events during queen for a day

First reaction was to not trust Nuru because of how much she reminds him of Rapunzel. Even though the two of them had mostly mended things at that point, there was still a part of him deep down that blamed Raps and expected Nuru to betray the rest of the team for her kingdom

Had to put up a sign declaring his lab an “anti-Eugene” zone due to how often Eugene just barges in without warning. When it didn’t work, Varian changed it to say “Anti-Horace” just to piss him off

Keira and Catalina were his first friends that were actually around his age

Calls Hugo “pretty boy” as an insult (backfires cuz Hugo thinks they’re flirting)

Thrives in warm/hot weather but the moment the temperature drops, Varian refuses to go outside and wears thick clothing until it’s spring/summer again

He’s a snob about produce due to his dad being a farmer, and it’s a nightmare to go food shopping with him. What’s supposed to take an hour at most turns into an entire afternoon wasted at the market because the tomatoes are too soft or the apples aren’t the right color or the celery doesn’t snap right. Hugo, who grew up eating whatever he could get his hands on, has to physically restrain himself from strangling Varian

He had freckles everywhere

Exchanges letters with Rapunzel throughout his journey as a way of mending their relationship further (they both still feel super guilty about everything that happened and blame themselves) so no matter how far Varian travels, he’ll always have someone from home to guide him

Doodles Team Radical in the margins of his journal when he’s bored (caught himself making a very detailed sketch of Hugo’s face and was ashamed of himself for days)

Inconsistent sleep schedule due to nightmares, which often leads to him sitting outside by the campfire late at night. Because of this, he and Hugo are alone together a lot of the time because Hugo is usually the last of the team to go to bed

Insane sweet tooth, genuinely can’t get through the day without consuming something sweet

First to see Hugo with his hair down and was a flustered mess about it for hours after

Hugo was the first one he told about his past as the Alchemist

Has the Saporian emblem on his body somewhere (either tattooed or branded idk) because everyone in that group has it as a way to pledge their loyalty

Slight country accent that surfaces only when he’s really fired up (you can pry this hc from my cold dead hands cuz I think it’s so funny that he becomes a cowboy when he’s angry)

“Accidentally” leaves goo traps in the castle halls where he knows Nigel and/or Frederick will be walking

Forgets to eat all the time. People will remind him, but he’ll just wave it off and forget until someone shoves a ham sandwich in his face and threatens to reorganize his beaker drawer

Despises coffee and makes fun of Eugene for drinking an “old man” drink, but he will drink it if he’s pulling an all nighter and is desperate for something to keep him awake

Realized he was bisexual at some point during the journey. I feel like he wouldn’t care about romance after becoming royal engineer and getting over his crush on Cassandra, so it wouldn’t really occur to him that he likes both guys and girls until he’s on the road with too much time to think

Tries to emulate his dad when taking charge of the group cuz even away from home, he looks up to his dad

Wrist scars from the handcuffs during his prison era, whether they’re prominent or barely visible

Left-handed. Why? I dunno, it just makes sense to me

Hot chocolate snob. He’ll drink almost all kinds of hot chocolate, but he has a preference for the high quality stuff they keep in the castle and can tell the difference between different kinds (judges people who make it with water instead of milk)

When he’s in a particularly sour mood, he’ll shut off all the hot water in Corona just to be petty (usually does it when Frederick pisses him off)

Yong called him his brother once and he didn’t stop crying for an hour

Made fun of Hugo for not knowing how to swim until Varian has to save him from drowning in the water trial

Gets offended when people call Ruddiger fat or say he’s overweight (he’s basically a bowling ball that waddles around the castle but Varian isn’t ready for that conversation yet)

Refuses to let people take care of him when he’s sick because they “have better things to do”

Hugo is the only one he will voluntarily share a lab space with. Anyone else and he’d rather throw himself out a window

I have so much more but this is definitely long enough jansosiwbsoishwnsksoaisj I love him

Thank you for the ask <333

[drowningkeyborad]

My Headcanons of this Freak <3

Hates the cold. Like, ‘sleeps-in-a-hoodie-&-sweat-pants-with-a-space-heater-on’ type hatred of the cold.

Loves hoodies & sweatshirts, but can’t stand long sleeve shirts (I’m definitely not self projecting shut up—)

‘I hate everyone BUT you’ type of boyfriend

Speaking of which; he’s a boy kisser.

Specifically Bisexual with a preference of men (but that’s something he hasn’t unpacked yet).

He’s had flings with both men & women, but too busy being an assassin to really think of anything long term.

(1/2) He lives in a shitbox apartment. Despite The Order ‘paying well’ he doesn’t exactly know how to spend the money—

(2/2) Growing up in a government facility then running away to join a criminal organization will do that to you.

Despite the shitbox apartment, this man has a FOREST of house plants. All well taken care of and thriving.

Same shitbox apartment is covered in plants, his bed is piled with a multitude of blankets, and the walls are strung with string lights and small lamps.

He decks out his apartment so the small space doesn’t start to feel like the prison cells he’s been put in.

Introverted, but also full of himself at the same time.

Despite seeing his clones as actual clones and not genuine expansions of himself—like Kate—I think he still suffers from SOME sort of PTSD from them dying.

Of course he would, but he’s more in the ‘I-act-like-it-doesn’t-affect-me-but-holy-shit-it-really-really-does’ box

He doesn’t like kids. But kids sure as hell love him.

Tea and/or Hot Chocolate drinker. Coffee doesn’t sit right with him. And WARM drinks only. Besides water or something like milk.

5’7”. MAYBE 5’8” AT MOST.

His love language is quality time. ESPECIALLY quality time at his apartment. That’s his safe space, and he doesn’t just let anyone in.

Keeps an eye on the news to look out for Kate in his own way.

Late morning type of person.

Literally has to be dragged out of bed in the morning, then stands there pouting, hair messy like a skrunkly cat.

Cuddle him, damnit!

I don’t think he enjoys his line of work, but he does take pride in his efficiency in it.

Savory foods & flavor sort of guy.

Can’t cook for shit, so he’s a frequent flyer at the Chinese restaurants in a 10 mile radius.

Would love to have a pet, but the risk of him getting put in jail from months—to potentially years—on end stops him from doing so.

Might do a part 2 later. LMK what yall think! (I say to the all of 5 other Multi-Paul fans out there).

[heartz4levi]

hey vro....me again(^^; i know, i come back with another one too soon.....but your writing is too delicious...

anwww i want to make a req, if that isnt obvious :3.. ivantill + malereader poly:333 i picked malereader cuz i personally see ivan as a canonically gay character...hope you dont mind (<_<;) till is my bisexual king tho:3 depends on you if you wanna make it sfw or nsfw, im not picky...im just gay.....

sorrie i think i yap too much, anw thanks for your time luv:3 take care, remember that you value!♡

-🫐anon

make you fall in love, like a choir sings !

☆ thinking abt ivantill + reader poly hcs . . .

☆ ivan (alnst) ,, till (alnst) ,, male reader . . sfw + nsfw ,, literally every genre under the sun is included in this one work ,, insecurity talk ,, some people hate but ivantill and reader are thriving ,, everyone is a switch ,, i push the ivan freak in the sheets agenda as per usual ,, attempted passionate love making turns into reader and ivantill devouring each other (figuratively not literally).

there is no such thing as a boring day in the household you live in with ivan and till.

the chaos starts early in the morning. ivan is the one who tends to wake up first, but he never lets neither you nor till get out of bed until he's spent enough time waking up and cuddling you two simultaneously (as if you haven't been trapped in his arms the entire night).

till does protest and tries to squirm his way out of bed, however the success rate is low. ivan isn't letting go of him and you're not helping, which leaves till a huffing and puffing grump almost every morning.

whenever ivan doesn't feel an overwhelming need to slow down your shared mornings, he gets out of bed and makes breakfast for the three of you, offering a pleasant start to your day.

the three of you are inseparable — even if all of you have work to attend to on a certain day, the evening will be spent relaxing at home while attached to each other like a bunch of leeches. till's social battery is drained and therefore won't say much nor will he really move from his spot. ivan is either yapping in your ear about what happened during his day or he'll be completely silent, playing with your hair.

on days where all of your schedules are clear, though, best believe the three of you are leaving the comfort of your home for once. there is no such thing as just you and till going out, or just you or ivan, or just them two. no! it's one for all and all for one. with your contrasting personalities that, surprisingly enough, don't clash, each and every date is something new and fun.

the three of you unabashedly match outfits, down to the accessories. they're not the kind of matching outfits that are nearly identical save for someone wears a skirt instead of pants or something, the kind of matching outfits you'd see generic couples on the street wear. but rather, they're outfits that showcase all of your personal styles while also complementing each other, whether it be through colors or patterns.

the three of you are head—turners for sure. charismatic, talented, handsome and a good sense of style? people can't decide if they want to be one of you or if they want to be with all of you.

well, that's the good side of being head—turners. of course, people who scowl when seeing two people of the same gender together or when seeing multiple people, regardless of the gender, together exist. unfortunately for them, you three tick both of those boxes. do you care though? nope!

if you begin to feel a little bit self—conscious because of the judgmental stares, ivan will be quick to comfort you via words and till will do his best to make you feel less worried as well via awkward pats on the back or on the crown of your head. he's not great with affection, but he's even worse when it comes to using his words.

the two of them never let you be under the weather. both of them are observant and will pick up on the little telltale signs right away. till's preferred method of lightening your spirits includes executing acts of service for you. that means preparing one of your favourite meals or desserts, bringing you snacks, silently handing you small trinkets that look so silly they'll put a smile on your face.

on the other hand, ivan is much more direct. if you're not aversed to physical touch he'll give you as many snuggles as you need until you're not so upset anymore, he'll talk to you and offer advice or sweet compliments.

you thought days with them were memorable? oh, but the nights you spend together sometimes..

have the three of you tried to engage in passionate love making before? yes, you have. did it always end up turning in rough, almost animalistic fucking because neither of you can conceal the pure desire you harbor for one another? again, yes.

ivan is open to anything and everything. total freak in bed. till isn't as fond of experimenting, preferring to stick to what he knows he likes. regardless of their differences, they both love you in such a way under the sheets that you feel like a lamb stuck inbetween two wolves — except the actual predator/prey concept isn't prominent. they're not claiming you.

they're not claiming you, they're openly displaying their love and adoration for you. till is the type to whisper praises into your ears, going on about how you're such a good, pliant boy for them while ivan loses himself in the warmth of your hole.

courtesy of ivan and his versatility, each night spent exploring each other's bodies incorporates a new element into your ever—changing routine of sorts. despite what you might think, it isn't that tough to coax till into trying something new out. just smother his face in kisses while ivan uses words to convince him and he'll be putty in both of your hands in no time!

you three have tried every bottom and top combination present on the face of this planet. ivan has ravaged and been ravaged, till gave into his desires in a selfish manner and has offered himself to you and your boyfriend in a stark, selfless contrast, you have done whatever you pleased with the two of them and have allowed yourself to become nothing but a hole for them to use or a dick for them to ride.

each session is intense. you're not the only one heaving and sweating once all of the collective energy in the room is depleted, don't worry.

still, no matter how exhausted you, ivan or till are, aftercare will always be prioritized. someone will get up, clean the mess you've made and then grab something fulfilling to eat and something hydrating to drink. no, falling asleep in each other's arms is not forgotten about. ivan always ends up pulling both you and till into his arms mid—slumber anyway.